


Sherlock Remembers

by roryuniverse



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: AlittlebitofJohnlock, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:29:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roryuniverse/pseuds/roryuniverse
Summary: An AU in which Sherlock and John were friends as children, and continued to be as they grew. But at the age of 18, John leaves his best friend to go into the military. Years pass and both friends end up forgetting about each other. Sherlock assumes John is dead. John assumes Sherlock was just a faded memory.Many feels in just five, short chapters.





	1. Toy Soliders and Deductions

Eight-year old John Hamish Watson sat on the steps in front of the door of his flat. Toy soldiers, tanks, and any other war-related toys were all set up before him on the ground next to the step he sat on. The boy had blonde hair and brown eyes; rather than blue. He wore a simple yet warm sweater that seemed a bit too big for him, which was his favourite colour, red, a plain shirt with a collar underneath, and blue jeans. "Oh no, they've got bombs!" he shouted in his still-developing child's voice, making a helicopter fly through the air. He made noises of the chopper and then bomb noises before knocking over some toy soldiers---army men in fact--- on one side. "Oh no, they don't! Send in back up, send in back up!" he made the sergeant of that side yell. He then pushed two tanks forward. He then paused for a moment. He couldn't possibly be the friend and enemy at once; that would be just silly! You couldn't choose both sides in a war. It's just not how it worked. John sighed. He missed his old friends. He missed his old school. But Mum decided that they had to move. He didn't really understand why. He felt lonely here. . . There was nobody to play with but himself. His sister, Harry, seemed too busy with her new girlfriend, who she seemed to argue with all the time; John once heard her yelling to her on the phone. He knew it was her girlfriend because she told him. She told him almost everything, but not that much anymore.

And of course, he couldn't play with Mum. Mum was always busy. He couldn't play with Dad because. . . Dad was gone. Gone forever during a war. When the news first hit him from a sobbing Harry, he didn't understand it at first. Gone? Did that mean he just wasn't coming back for a long time, but would come back one day? When his sister explained, he wept and wept for a long time. For days he had waited for his father to come home to bring the good news that they had won the war. That he was home to stay. But, that never happened. John was seven then. Knowing his favourite person in the world, his role model, his inspiration, was gone forever and ever, caused tears to well up in his eyes, burning like the memory that suddenly popped into his head. He stared down sadly at a knocked over army man, as if the figurine was his father, knocked down and defeated in battle. . . .

"Come on, Mycroft, you promised to play Deductions with me!" William Sherlock Scott Holmes---who preferred to go by "Sherlock"---tugged at his brother's shirt, begging him to play his favourite game. The boy was nine years old. He had curly black hair, pale skin, and unusual grey-blue eyes, which looked green sometimes due to his eye condition, heterochromia. He wore a wrinkled, purple shirt(which seemed to be his favourite colour), in which the buttons were clumsily buttoned, and black pants. Mycroft, his brother---who was five years older than him(and looked nothing like Sherlock; or vise versa), gave an irritated sigh from his place on his desk. He looked round at his little brother. "I never said I 'promised', Sherlock. I merely said I 'would'. But I can't now because I've got a report that's due next week. How am I supposed to get it done if you keep bothering me about that stupid game?" 

"It's not stupid because I invented it and Redbeard thinks it's a fun game! Right, boy?" Sherlock looked over to his friend, a reddish Irish setter. The dog was behind him, wagging his tail. Of course, he didn't understand anything that his favourite boy said, but he barked all the same because he heard his name and he must have been important, as Sherlock was giving him a bit of attention. "See? Told you!" Sherlock said, immediately taking the bark as agreement. Mycroft merely rolled his eyes. He didn't tell his younger brother that dogs didn't understand human speech except for a few words. He turned back to his homework. "Go play Deductions with Redbeard, then, since he thinks your game is so fun." 

"But you always play Deductions with me..... Besides, Redbeard only thinks I want to play his games. It's no fun." 

"I can't this time, obviously! Why don't you go outside and find somebody to play with? I heard there's a new kid that moved in. Play with him. For God's sake, make some friends. Redbeard can't be your only friend." Sherlock sighed. 

"Make some friends." He hated when Mycroft told him that. In fact, his parents did as well(but at least they never judged him for the way he was---different from everyone). He was an anti-social nine-year old; he didn't go out to talk and make friends, no matter how many times his brother or parents tried to get him to. He just wouldn't do it. He wasn't shy. Just..... Anti-social. Redbeard was his only friend, and he wanted it to stay that way. But, of course, things change. . . .


	2. Detective

Sherlock took Mycroft's advice, for once: he went outside to see if the new kid would play with him. It didn't take him too long to find him. He watched from a few feet away as the blonde-haired boy made a tank shoot down some army men, knocking them over. "Victory!!" he made the other side of the army men cheer. "Well, men, today we won a difficult battle. It's time that we--" 

"What are you doing?" John had stopped mid-sentence. He looked up to see a dark-haired boy looking down at him. He seemed a bit tall for his age, and wore an expressionless look on his face. "I'm playing War with toy soldiers. Want to play?" he said, smiling a little. Maybe he could finally make a friend in this strange, new place known as Baker Street. The pale-skinned boy stared blankly down at his war toys before looking back at him. He shook his head. "No." he said flatly, sounding uninterested. The hope of making a friend began to flutter away like a butterfly as John looked down, trying to hide his frown. "Oh. . . Okay." 

"But, I have a better game. Wanna play?" the other boy said. John looked up at him, his smile returning. "Okay! What sort of game?" he asked, standing up. 

"Well, first off, I'd like to know your name. I just know you're new here. My brother told me."

"Oh, well, my name is John Watson! Yours?"

"Sherlock Holmes." 

"Hi, Sherlock, it's nice to meet you!" John acted very friendly. It was how he was taught by his parents(when his father was still around). He paused, seeing a dog behind Sherlock Holmes, wagging its tail, its tongue hanging out of its mouth. "Hey, is that your dog?" he wondered, pointing at it. Sherlock looked over at the Irish setter. Of course he followed him. "Yeah. He's my friend, Redbeard." Redbeard barked at the sound of his name, his tail wagging faster. John smiled at him. He wanted a dog, but he knew his mum wouldn't allow it. He remembered seeing a French bull dog---only a clumsy little pup---one time in a window. He begged and begged his mother, but she still said no. John had soon just given up. "Redbeard? That's a cool name! So, um what is this game that we are going to play?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, staring at John Watson. He didn't think he could play Deductions with him as well as Mycroft. He would just keep winning. He never really cared if he were playing a game and the other person lost. But, right now, he wanted to try and make a new friend. He thought of a better game to play with the sweater-wearing boy: Detective. He played it all the time with Redbeard, who enjoyed it very much. "Detective. In this game, I'm the detective, and you're my partner who's a doctor and helps me." Sherlock explained. John nodded, his eyes widening slightly in curiosity and excitement. "Ooh! That sounds fun!"

"It is fun. Redbeard says so. Right, boy?" Sherlock looked at the reddish Irish setter, who barked. "You want to be an army doctor." he had suddenly said, observing the war toys. John blinked a few times in surprise. 

"Y-yes, I do..... Or a doctor. How did you know?" 

"I didn't. I just observed." "Wow..... Cool! You're going to be a great detective!" Sherlock smiled. "I know." John just stared at him. He didn't expect him to agree. It seemed he was rubbing it in his face, but he didn't care. He wanted to be this boy's friend. "Actually, I don't want to be a detective." the curly-haired boy said. "You don't....?" 

"Nope! I want to be a consulting detective." 

"What's that?" 

"It's like a private detective and I ask important questions to my clients. Questions that are not boring or useless." 

"Oh.... But..... There are no consulting--" 

"I know. I made it up all by myself." Sherlock said, lifting his head up and folding his arms proudly. John smiled, impressed. "Cool!" 

"Now, let's play the game. Redbeard's going to play, too."

"Good boy, Redbeard, finding clues!" The Irish setter was sniffing about, wagging his tail excitedly at Sherlock's words. Of course, he wasn't really sniffing out invisible clues. He was just doing what dogs did. But the boy pretended that he was actually playing Detective with him and John. Sherlock had taken out a small magnifying glass and knelt down, observing invisible footprints carefully. "Hmm...." he said thoughtfully. "Got anything?" John wondered, who stood beside him, watching. "Yes, it seems like the footprints of a...... Pirate." 

"Pirate?" 

"Yes." 

"You mean like Redbeard?" John gasped, having a sudden thought. 

"Maybe he's the pirate! This could all be a set up!"

"John." 

"Yes?" 

"I'm supposed to say that, not you. I'm the consulting detective here." John smiled sheepishly. "Oh. Right. Sorry." Sherlock gasped, much like John did a minute ago. "Dr. Watson!" 

"What is it, Mr. Holmes?!"

Sherlock observed the invisible footprints closely with the magnifying glass, his imagination changing them into paw-prints. 

"These are no ordinary footprints.... They are the paw-prints of an animal..... Of a dog!" John's eyes widened in pretend surprise. "Y-you don't mean....." 

"Yes. Redbeard is the pirate! He murdered one of the Queen's guards!" John gave a loud gasp. "He murderered one of the Queen's guards?! No way!" Sherlock stopped, staring at him. 

"John." 

"Yes?" 

"Murdered." 

"Murderere....... Murderereded...... Murdered." 

"There you go." 

"He murdered one of the Queen's guards?! No way!" John repeated. Sherlock stood up and turned towards Redbeard. "We trusted you, Redbeard!" The dog barked twice, wagging his tail excitedly. "Come on, Dr. Watson, after that murderer!" Sherlock yelled, his voice cracking a bit. He then ran after Redbeard, John running to keep up. Redbeard continued to bark and wag his tail, enjoying this new game. He rushed down the sidewalk. He occasionally stopped and turned towards the boys, his body lowered to the ground, his rump in the air. He growled and barked playfully before running off once more. Sherlock and John continued to run after him. John had a big smile on his face, laughing happily. The other, however, looked serious. As if this was no longer a game but the real thing, and they were actually chasing after a pirate criminal who murdered one of the Queen's guards. Suddenly, he had tripped and fallen, scraping his knee. John, who was a bit ahead, had stopped and turned around, hurrying over to Sherlock. 

"What happened?" he asked, worry in his voice. "I fell." The nine-year old replied simply. 

"I know, but.... Are you okay?" 

"Yes." Sherlock winced, looking down at the scrape on his knee. It looked pretty nasty; nasty enough to almost make him cry. But he held back those ridiculous tears. Crying was useless, after all. It didn't make pain go away, and anyway it didn't hurt that much. John stepped up to him, looking at the wound. "Hmm..... Stay here, okay? I will be right back!" he said, before turning and hurrying off back to his flat. Redbeard had padded over, licking at Sherlock's face. Sherlock looked at him sternly. "No, Redbeard! You're not supposed to be nice. You're a murderer who's a pirate!" The Irish setter only barked in response, his tail a wagging blur. Just then, John had come back with what looked like a miniature aid kit in his hand. He knelt by Sherlock, setting the kit down before him. He looked at the scrape on the dark-haired boy's knee, observing it as if he were a doctor observing the serious wound on a patient. Sherlock watched him with curiosity. John had opened the kit and took out a small bottle of alcohol and a white cotton ball. He poured some of the stuff on the cotton ball before gently pressing it against Sherlock's wound. The boy let out a hiss in pain, biting his lip. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to hurt you. I just need to clean the wound. Hang in there, okay?" John said in a reassuring voice, as if he were speaking to a patient. Sherlock nodded silently in response. After John had cleaned out the wound, he reached in the kit for a Band-Aid. He had soon carefully put it on the scrape, his eyes in deep, serious concentration. He then put away the things he used in the aid kit, closing it back up. Sherlock looked at his bandaged knee and then at the blonde-haired boy. 

"You're going to be a great doctor." John looked at him. He blushed slightly, feeling humble. 

"W-well..... I don't know about that...." 

"But you are!" 

"You really think so?" 

"I don't think. I know." A smile slowly spread on John's face. Sherlock returned the smile.


	3. Redbeard

As the days went by, Sherlock and John's friendship grew like a flower blossoming in spring. The two really enjoyed each other's company---though there were times when Sherlock had gotten on John's nerves, but he soon grown used to it. He couldn't have asked for a better friend than Sherlock Holmes. They say time flies, and this is very true. For it wasn't long until a year passed. Mycroft had then left to go to college, leaving a sad Sherlock behind. Who would play Deductions with him? But the thought of knowing he had John made him feel better. As the years passed, the two best friends grew. It wasn't long until John was fifteen and Sherlock was sixteen. He may have grown, but he still loved Redbeard as his first friend. But Redbeard began to grow old. . . There were times when the poor dog could barely walk, and he stopped playing. Those days were over. When Mrs. Holmes discovered him limping badly one day, she took him to the vet and came back home to Sherlock with the news that Redbeard had hip dysplasia. More bad things happened after that. As the months passed by, the Irish setter had become hard of hearing. He even began to lose some fur, and his coat had lost its beautiful, glossy red look; it became a more dull colour. There were times when he just refused to eat, no matter how hard Sherlock tried to coax him to. The teen knew he was slowly losing his dog. He knew it was almost time, but he refused to let his friend go. One Saturday evening, while Sherlock was watching his favourite murder programme on the telly, Redbeard had come limping in, whimpering. Sherlock turned his head towards him, pity in his eyes for the poor dog. He patted the couch, encouraging him to get on. Redbeard had paused, whining. He wasn't up to such a difficult task. He longed for the days when he was playful and lively. But as a dog, he knew he couldn't be those things forever. Nature intended for him to eventually grow too old for that sort of thing. Perhaps It had Its reasons. But Redbeard knew when it was time, it was time. He did not question it. And he would not try to fight back when the time came. "Come on, boy!" Sherlock said, patting the couch again. He knew the dog couldn't hear him, but it was by instinct to coax through voice. Redbeard continued to whine, staring at Sherlock with old, sad tired eyes. The boy stood up and stepped over to him. He had grown quite tall; he was taller than his mother now. He had prominent, sharp cheekbones and his voice had already gone through puberty early; it was deep. However, there were times when it cracked just a little, but this barely happened. His curls had grown longer, covering his ears and going down to his shoulders. It was time for a haircut already. "Too much hair, that boy has!" Mrs. Holmes would grumble. But she was proud of her son; she believed he looked as handsome as his father. Sherlock had leaned down, managing to pick up the upper body of Redbeard. He may have looked pale and skinny, but Sherlock Holmes was a healthy and strong boy. He had managed to somehow get half of the dog on his back before slowly walking back to the couch. "It's..... Okay, Redbeard.... I... I got you...." he said, already panting with the effort of carrying him. He soon had gotten him onto the couch, and the Irish setter laid next to him, staring at the telly. His tail wagged slowly with some effort as Sherlock pet him.

It wasn't long until Redbeard became blind in both eyes. The only thing he could rely on was his sense of smell, which guided him to Sherlock, and only Sherlock alone. It was the only thing he wanted to be next to the last few days before his coming of death. Sherlock would guide him every step of the way, never leaving his side, and taking care of him just as he did for all those years. Just as Redbeard had been a loyal friend to him, Sherlock was returning what the dog deserved. One morning, the curly-haired teen woke up to a shining sun. He looked on his bed to notice Redbeard wasn't there. He stretched out his limbs before getting up and walking out of his room. He called for Redbeard, as was habit, looking about. He soon found the old Irish setter lying curled up in a corner in the living room. "Redbeard? What are you doing over here, boy?" Redbeard had made an effort to slowly lift his head a little at the scent of his favourite boy. He wagged his tail weakly before lying his head back down. Sherlock had walked over to him and sat by his side, running a pale hand through his soft fur. The dog's tail weakly thumped on the floor at the calm, comforting feel of a familiar hand petting him. He whined softly. "I know, I know...." Sherlock said in a low voice, tears beginning to well up in his eyes. He knew it was time. Dear old Redbeard would be leaving him this morning. But he just didn't want to accept it. Redbeard gave another soft whine. His tail had slowly stopped wagging, his eyes closing. Soon, the dog had taken his last breath. . . And was gone. Sherlock had lost it then, not knowing what else to do. "NO, REDBEARD!!" he yelled, his voice cracking. At the sound of his voice, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes came rushing from their room, still in their night clothes. They saw their son sobbing into the fur of a limp, no longer moving dog. "Oh no..." Mrs. Holmes gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. Both parents stepped over to Sherlock, trying to comfort him. "Redbeard was an astounding dog." Mr. Holmes said. "Yes, he definitely was." Mrs. Holmes began. "But don't worry, dear, I'm sure he's in---" "There is no such thing as heaven!!" Sherlock suddenly burst out, turning round on his mother. "William---" his father began. "It's Sherlock, not 'William'! Anyway, heaven doesn't exist. There's no proof. That being said, nobody, nothing goes to heaven when they die. They don't go anywhere. So..... So Redbeard is gone! Forever!" he then turned away. He knew he was acting childish, but losing his friend and pet had really put a weight on his shoulders that he could not lift off easily. His mother and father looked at each other. Mrs. Holmes then looked back at her son, sadness in her eyes. 

"Okay. But. . . At least he will always be in your heart." Sherlock turned to look at his mum. She looked back, expecting another outburst. But instead, he ran over to her and buried his face in her chest, crying. Crying as if he were a little child again. Mrs. Holmes rubbed his back, trying to comfort him, telling him over and over that everything will be okay.


	4. Mystèrieux

A few days after dear old Redbeard's death, the Irish setter was buried in the cemetery. Sherlock's parents had taken him there to say his last goodbye, but promised him that, of course, he could visit the dog's grave whenever he wished. He didn't even know why he was doing it in the first place. It was pointless. And yet, there he was. Mr. And Mrs. Holmes decided to let him alone to the grave, waiting in the cab. Some time later, Sherlock felt the presence of someone beside him in the corner of his eye. He looked to see that it was John Watson. The other looked at him back. "Hey, sorry about--" 

"It won't bring him back." Sherlock looked back at the grave. John decided to not say anything else; the sixteen-year old obviously wasn't the type to get the grief off of his chest. He just looked at the grave, putting a hand on his best friend's shoulder in reassurance. Sherlock didn't say anything or move his hand away. He didn't even acknowledge it. He continued to stare silently at the words, Here lies Redbeard, the greatest dog that roamed the seas, engraved on the gravestone. Sherlock thought it was pretty cheesy, but his parents insisted on getting it on there. "Mum. Dad. I'm not a child anymore," he had told them. "We know, dear. We just thought it would lift your spirits a bit whenever you see it." his mother had said. He decided to not tell her it didn't lift his spirits at all. But her and Dad probably already knew that.

"So. . . You'll be leaving into the military soon?" Sherlock had spoke, breaking the silence. John gave a small nod. 

"Yeah. When I'm eighteen." 

"I'll be losing another friend." 

John looked at him in surprise. "Don't say that, Sherlock! You won't--" 

"You don't know that." Sherlock interrupted calmly in a cold voice. He then turned and walked back to his waiting cab. John watched him leave, sighing. He tried to remind himself that the dark-haired teen's behaviour was due to losing his dog, who he had owned for many years. John almost felt jealous. He wished he had known Sherlock before Redbeard---he quickly shook his head, waving the thought away like an annoying fly. Jealousy wasn't something he should be thinking right now, especially after what Sherlock just went through. The blonde-haired fifteen-year old left the grave, wondering to himself if he was really making a right choice: going into the military.

A year had quickly came and went. On Sherlock's seventeenth Birthday, John had come over to his flat, 221B to give him a gift he picked out. Knowing Sherlock as well as his parents or Mycroft did, he knew that he didn't care much for gifts. But, as his best friend, John felt the need to get him something. It was, perhaps, just a habit of a normal human being. "Happy Birthday, Sherlock!" John said as he had entered the flat and walked up the stairs into the living room. Sherlock looked at him with his usual expressionless face. "You got me a gift." he said, sounding slightly annoyed. John smiled sheepishly, shrugging. "Yeah. . . Sorry. Couldn't help it." The other merely grunted. He then stared down at the gift. "Judging by the shape of the gift, it's obviously a violin. Well, thank you, I've been wanting one, actually. How did you manage to get your hands on it?" John blinked. "Uh. . . Well. . . It used to belong to my sister, but she let me have it. I thought since I would never use it and because you've been taking violin lessons, that maybe you'd want one of your own. And you do, I guess." John never knew he wanted a violin; he only guessed. Sherlock never told him what he wanted for his Birthday. 

"So, what do you want on your Birthday?" he had wondered a week before his Birthday. 

"Nothing." 

"Really, Sherlock? 'Nothing'?" 

"Yes." 

"Okay. . . But what do you want most in the world?" 

"Nothing." John had given up. It took him a few hours afterwards to remember he had started taking violin lessons well after Redbeard passed away. "To help me think," he had told John. But John knew better. There was nothing to think about. It was to take his mind off of the dog.

"Well, bring it here, let me open it to see what it looks like. Or are you just going to stand there?" Sherlock had said. Sherlock's mother, who stood behind the couch near her son, hit him on the head. "Sherlock! Manners." When she wasn't noticing for a brief moment, Sherlock looked towards John and mimicked his mother like a child. John had to bite his lip from letting out his laughter. He then stepped over to his best friend, handing him the wrapped up violin carefully. Sherlock took the violin and unwrapped it. Wrapping paper carelessly thrown aside, he wasted no time to open the case to see a beautiful, intricate violin---from the polished, brown wood, to the thin, taut strings. He gently picked up the bow, observing almost each and every horse hair that was used on the strings to create that lovely sound when played correctly. 

"Wow, seriously, John, I.... I really like this. I don't know what to--" 

"Why don't you try it out, Sherlock Holmes?" John interrupted playfully with a grin on his lips. Sherlock grinned back. He put the case aside carefully before standing up. Once his violin and bow were in the right place, he began to play a slow, soft melody. Mrs. Holmes and John watched, their hearts suddenly filled with peace. It was hard to say what sort of sound it was. It was mysterious; like Sherlock himself. Mrs. Holmes wished her husband could quit work to listen to her brilliant son. John found himself wishing Redbeard knew that his friend could play such a wonderful melody from a beautiful instrument right on the spot without the aid of sheet music. Sherlock himself imagined his dog sitting there before him, howling along as he played. At that moment, he called the music piece he created simply "Mystérieux".


	5. Remembrance. . .

It was the day. The day that two best friends said their farewells. Nineteen-year old Sherlock Holmes stood before John Watson, who was all packed and ready to leave for his plane. Fortunately, he had a bit of time to say goodbye to Sherlock before going. Going into the military. And eventually finding himself on the battlefield. . . John was uncertain about doing this, and oftentimes he would change his mind. But then he made the final decision. There was no going back now. Sherlock had missed his college class to tell his best friend goodbye. It didn't matter much; he was already at the top of his class; he was known to be very quick-learning and intelligent in the area of chemistry. However, when his teacher told him this, he merely said, "It's not a career I'm after, but thank you." The teacher was quite puzzled, because after all the young man was taking chemistry, but didn't bother questioning him. He was odd himself anyway. 

"So. . . This is it. Our last goodbye." Sherlock had spoke in a low voice, looking at John. 

"Yeah. Last goodbye." John avoided eye contact, staring down at the ground. Silence seemed to envelope the two as they stood there, like a buffalo aware of its death from the wolf, but both stand there, staring into each other's eyes for a moment. Or when a war has been fought, and everyone can go home, yet the soldiers just stand there on the battlefield, staring at each other---remembering all that they gone through together and wondering if this was really the end. After some time, John had remembered something. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small figurine---an army man. He then looked at Sherlock, handing it to him. 

"Here, I uh..... Still have this. I wanted to give it to you. So, you know, you can remember me." he chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "I know it's stupid, but--" 

"Thank you." Sherlock took the army man, holding it tightly in the palm of his hand. John stared at him, as if he didn't hear right and wondering if Sherlock really did just take a little, plastic toy and said the two words 'thank you'. "Well. . . I'm going to uh, to miss you." he said, clearing his throat and blinking back the oncoming of tears. He tried to look strong in front of Sherlock. The other nodded a little. "Yeah, me too." Suddenly, he grabbed John into a tight hug. John looked surprised for a moment before hugging back. Hearing a lady on the intercom announcing the flight of his plane, he had pulled away. "Well, I guess--"

"Go on, before you miss your flight, you idiot!" Sherlock pushed him, smiling a little. John had staggered back, returning the smile. He then turned and hurried to his plane. Once the plane had began to take off, Sherlock had pushed through a crowd of people to watch it go, to see John one more time. John looked out of the window and his eyes stared down at the small form of Sherlock as the plane went up higher into the sky, until he could see his best friend no more. . . Down on land, Sherlock had taken out the army man, looking down at it. He sighed inwardly. He then turned and made his way back home.

Years passed by, as they always do; and of course, quite quickly. Sherlock Holmes was a consulting detective. He lived alone in the same flat, 221B. His parents had moved out after he had turned twenty. He was now an older man---about forty-five. He had a landlady named Mrs. Hudson who kept him company sometimes, though he didn't really need it. Memories of his best friend John Watson had begun to fade through the years until he had forgotten about him completely, assuming he was killed in war. And now, twenty years later, he had no memory of John's existence. Being through military training and now in serious wars, John Watson himself couldn't tell you who Sherlock Holmes was. He was just a faded memory to the army doctor, a memory that he could not recall; a wall like a barricade kept the memory from entering his mind. It was true that he moved on and forgot about his best friend. But that's what war did to you, right? A year later after a big war against Afghanistan, the forty-four year old man retired. He didn't particularly live anywhere; he had moved into a quite small flat that he couldn't really stay in, trying to live a normal life and forget about his war life. However, almost every night he had bad dreams about the Afghanistan war that felt vivid---the gunshots, his comrades crying out and dying all around him, and many other horrible noises, as well as images. This went on for a while, no matter how normal poor John tried to live. He knew he had PTSD and needed help. A few days later, he went to go see a therapist, who was a big help actually. Her name was Ella Thompson, and John admitted that she was very good at her job. The female therapist talked with him every other Monday, and he began to feel more....normal. However, this did not stop the nightmares from coming. John didn't bring it up to Ella that they had never really left.

But one Monday afternoon, he decided to just tell her. He couldn't take it anymore. Ella looked at him with a soft, yet firm expression. "John, you need to find something to do." John nodded his head slowly, staring down at his teacup. "Yeah. I know."

"Have you tried writing a blog?"

He then looked up at the therapist silently. "It may help," she added.

"I don't know. . ." he sighed.

"Do you have other ideas? If so, please share."

"I don't."

"Writing will definitely help, then. Trust me, I'm a therapist."

"I don't think--"

"John. You have to try. Writing has helped many people, and it could help you. At least give it a go and tell me if it works, okay?"

John was silent for a moment before answering.

"Okay."

After five or so days of avoiding it, John finally decided to try and follow his therapist's advice. He wrote about his life on his blog, John H. Watson, as if it were a journal written on the Internet. Surprisingly, it wasn't long until many people read the things that he wrote, and he felt that it became quite helpful because his vivid nightmares began to slowly go away. But sometimes he would have a few sudden flashes of the war here and there. One morning, upon waking up quickly from such a dream, his heart pounding in his chest, he decided to try and go out to get some fresh air with a cup of coffee. It may help as much as the blog thing, he thought to himself. After putting on his cardigan, he grabbed his cane that was leaning against his desk and stepped outside. He had bought himself a warm cup of coffee and walked down to St. James's Park, limping. Relief flooded him as he neared the park bench and sat down with a sigh, coffee in one hand. After taking a sip of his coffee, he heard a voice call out, "Hey!" he turned to see a plump-looking man wearing rectangle-framed glasses and a suit and tie. He stepped up to John, smiling, as if he knew him. "Remember me?" the man asked. John's face began to slowly lit up as he began to remember who this man was, a smile forming on his lips. "Ah, Mike Stamford!"

"Yes! I know I'm a bit difficult to recognise; I've gotten fat." John laughed a little at his old friend's joke as he sat down next to him. "So, how have you been doing?" Mike wondered.

"Good, I suppose."

"You suppose?"

"Yes. . . Well, not really. Need a place to stay. Can't afford London on an army pension."

Mike nodded. "I see. Well, couldn't Harry help?"

John let out a small, empty laugh. "Yeah, like that's going to happen."

Mike shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. You could get a flat or share something."

"C'mon. . . . Who would want me as a flatmate?"

Mike gave him a look. Seeing his expression, John raised a brow. "What?" he wondered, puzzled.

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me."

John tilted his head slightly. "Who's the first?"

Sherlock Holmes had just left the morgue, going to his lab. He walked in, immediately setting to work and observing something under his microscope. Just then, he heard the door open and looked up to see Mike Stamford step in, followed by a short man with grey hair. "This is my good friend, Dr. John Watson," Mike introduced his old friend to Sherlock, who gave no reply but looked at John, nodded his head a little, and gazed back down at his work. John stared hard at the tall, pale-skinned man. He seemed so familiar, and yet he couldn't understand why, no matter how hard he racked his brains. 

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock spoke in a deep voice, which nearly surprised John; he hadn't heard such a voice before.

"Don't have it on me, sorry," Mike responded, shrugging apologetically. John stepped up to the curly-haired man, holding out his phone. "Here, you can use mine."

"Thank you..." Sherlock said slowly, staring at the other as he reached out for the mobile phone. But he froze, continuing to stare. Why did this man seem so familiar? He immediately pushed the ridiculous thought away. He may know about his life, but he had no memory of knowing him personally. He finally took the phone, looking at the screen. Some time later, he gave the phone back to John, returning to his microscope.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he suddenly asked John.

"What?"

"Aghanistan or Iraq?"

John glanced towards Mike, who merely grinned at him. Seeing that his friend was being of no help, Dr. Watson turned his attention back to Sherlock. "Erm. . . Afghanistan. But how did you know--"

"I didn't. I observed."

John stared at him, blinking his brown eyes. "Observed?"

"Yes. I would tell you my deduction, but I've got to rush. I think I left my riding crop in the morgue." Sherlock had grabbed on a dark trench coat that hung on something carelessly. "But maybe we could catch up later for a dinner or something and discuss about you being my flatmate."

"What? But--"

"I know you're looking for one."

John turned round on Mike. "Did you tell him?"

Mike quickly shook his head. "Oh no, I didn't say anything, trust me."

"I never even said I was looking for one!"

"You don't have to say," Sherlock said, looking at him. He then turned and walked towards the door. He paused as John called out, "Wait!"

"First, you somehow know about me being in the war against Afghanistan, and then you ask if you want to be flatmates? I don't even know you!"

Sherlock had opened the door and stepped out, stopping to look back at John. "The name is Sherlock Holmes. I live in 221B, Baker Street." he gave a wink before turning to walk away. John watched him go, his hand gripping lightly on his cane. Sherlock Holmes. . . That really sounded familiar. As Sherlock walked back to his flat, he couldn't stop thinking about how John seemed so familiar to him.

"Wait, Sherlock! I think I know you!" called a voice. Sherlock paused and turned to see John hurrying over to him. "Sherlock..." he pant, tired out from running. "I know you---I mean, I remember you." Sherlock raised a brow. "But I don't remember you. Or know you, for that matter."

"Sherlock, we were childhood friends!"

Sherlock only stared blanky at him. "Sorry, but perhaps you're getting me confused with the wrong person. I have no memory of a 'childhood' friend. I don't have those, you know. Friends." he turned and began to walk away, but John's next words made him stop once more.

"No, I'm not confused with the wrong person. There is only one Sherlock I know, and that's you."

Sherlock slowly turned his head to look at John. Suddenly, it came to him: the memories. Wonderful, precious memories that he used to hold dear that contained him and John as best friends from children to teenagers.

"Well, first off, I'd like to know your name. I just know you're new here. My brother told me."

"Oh, well, my name is John Watson! Yours?"

"Sherlock Holmes." 

"Hi, Sherlock, it's nice to meet you!"

The memory that once was buried away like a forgotten treasure chest now flashed in his mind. Sherlock's grey-blue eyes lost their expressionless look and softened as he remembered.

"John?" he said in barely a whisper. But John heard, him, nodding He couldn't help but allow a small smile to appear on his lips. "Yes, it's me."

"John. . . John!!" Sherlock rushed over towards the other, hugging him tightly. John had dropped his cane and quickly returned the embrace, tears of happiness already rolling down his cheeks. "I. . . I was starting to think you really forgot about me."

"Forget about you? Never." John smiled in relief. The two reunited best friends stood there for a while, locked in the hug. Sherlock soon pulled away, looking at him. "You don't look too bad." he commented with a small smile.

"Yeah, you neither."

"So, flatmates?"

"Of course."

"Oh and I know you're trying to forget about the war and such, but I was wondering if you'd like to be my partner and solve crimes with me."

John stared at him. . . And then his eyes lit up with excitement. "Oh, God yes."

Sherlock grinned. As the two friends walked together to the consulting detective's flat, they talked about their lives and what was going on.

"You write a blog?" Sherlock said, after John had told him he had been writing one to help him with his PTSD.

"Yes. . .What's wrong with that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Nothing. I just find it pointless."

John didn't get annoyed. He merely smiled. "It's good to see you again, Sherlock."

"You too, John. And you're my best friend. You always were."

"I know."


End file.
